Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

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Prompt 12

Prompt 12: Down Memory Lane, Part Two. Think about the rites of passage your character went through. These can be mundane things like learning to walk, their first kiss, or taking an exam; formal ceremonies like a coming-of-age ritual, graduation or wedding; or life-changing events. Which steps did your character take on the way to who they are?

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** A/N: I responded to this prompt in two ways, with a series of drabbles about a variety of life events and a fic about one in particular.

 

Rites of Passage Drabbles:

• Birth: His birth was an occasion with a great deal of both happiness and sadness, for as soon as he was born, his mother, who had already suffered drained life force during her pregnancy, began to wane even more. These things were not supposed to happen in Aman, and although he could not remember his first moments, he knew of them later from how his father remembered them: the curtains drawn wide to let all the light of Laurelin in, but instead, all the light simply left.
• First death in the family: Death is not total silence, but silence of what matters. The leaves still crunch beneath his feet when he walks through the gardens, the birds still twitter as they leap from blossom to bloom, and the attendants keep up their soft humming, but the sound he wants to hear most is gone. The only sounds on his mother’s body are the breeze ruffling her gown, the slight scrape of the circlet in her hair against her stone bier, and the utter silence of her lips.
• Learning how to walk: Always a curious child, he desired to know what was beyond his reach. What was there when his father put him down, suddenly too heavy? What was there when his nursemaid left the room, heading for a greater destination? There was nothing stopping him but the wobbling of his legs, and he soon learned to master that, and began searching for something more interesting than his immediate surroundings. When he was found, his father’s smile was bittersweet, and he wondered if he had done something wrong. Later, he knew all that he had done wrong was reaching this milestone without his mother there.
• First day working with a tutor: The tutor, as things were explained to him, was there to help him become the prince he needed to be, and he took to his lessons with pride, although he was not content to be the student. The language he studied seemed to impractical, and he soon began to draw loopier letters on the side of his pages, on his own parchments at home, everywhere he could. And he learned to argue for his opinions, and that, in his mind, was the best way to be a prince, whatever his tutor said.
• First time meeting Indis: The blonde Vanya was trying to be his friend, but he made up his mind the moment his father told him that he was seeing someone that their relationship was anathema to everything he believed in, and there was nothing that she could do to help. She tried so much at first, making conversation through his awkwardness, trying to give him small gifts that most other children would have appreciated. She could not give him the one thing he needed – a mother – and because of that, he was determined to hate her for sitting in his mother’s garden, near her flowers, her hair so similar and yet so different, her chatter dishonoring the sacred space.
• Learning how to ride a horse: The movements were unnatural beneath his body, but there was so much more of the world to explore, and as he had no wish to be near his father during his courtship, he needed the refuge of the open fields. There was no war to wage, but he chose a strong stallion, charging as fast as it could go, relishing the wind in his face and his hair blowing back in a way that made Indis think he looked uncouth and wild. After these remarks, he only did it more, a smirk on his face daring her to say more.
• First day of apprenticeship: He was not guaranteed anything because of his circumstances of birth, he heard from Mahtan, and in some way, that was a relief. He earned his own spot by his own skill, and this satisfied him so much more than he could explain to his father. Many thought it was strange for a prince to want to take up smithing as a trade, but they had never felt the hammer in their hands, knocking against the anvil, using anger for positivity rather than scowling through every meal where she was invited.
• First date while your dad is going on a date: Nerdanel was beautiful, but so much more. He had been approached by just about every maiden on Tirion when he became of age, but he only had eyes for Mahtan’s red-haired daughter, her cheeky smile and the way they could discuss their mutual love of crafting that, at times, was meaning more to Fëanor than his family. It was his father’s first anniversary with the one who usurped his mother’s place, which only made him more determined to enjoy with Nerdanel. They are not in love, but he will not be alone on this night, and she understands, so perhaps, something may grow there.
• Coming of age ritual: He wears the robes of an adult, and the anger of his father telling him he acted like a child to his half-sister earlier that day. He walks into the room fueled by rage, and he is honored above all by so many, but he still feels emptiness as his father stoops to pick up the little girl, swinging her in the air. The only person in the room who he cares about is not even looking, and he decides then and there what kind of man he will be.
• First time trying to bake something: He smells the smoke mere moments before the explosion. He can smell the burning of the fire as he feels the squishiness of what was supposed to be pastry. These things didn’t work like the forge, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at himself. The noise of the banging draws Nerdanel, who smiles widely. And Nerdanel laughs, and scoops some of the batter out of his hair, and laughs again. And for the first time, he does not mind being laughed at.
• First half-brother born: He is convinced, when he hears the baby’s father-name, that he is finally being replaced. His insubordination has finally taken root, or Indis has poisoned his father’s mind, for who could call a baby wise next to his invention of the new script, of his discoveries in the forge every day? On this day, he is told he gains a brother, but in fact, he gains a new father, realizing how Mahtan does truly care for him, and he feels like he is part of a family at last.
• Marriage: He creates his own family when he marries Nerdanel. She is too young, too ugly, not a princess, people say, but there is a sparkle in her eyes like the center of a geode, unexpected perhaps but no less beautiful for not being conventional, and he feels joy like he has not in quite some time. He even ignores the way his half-siblings have to participate in the wedding, and his father smiles to them as well as him, for the one who matters today smiles only at him.
• First bonding: He feels their souls mingling together as their bodies do, and although his hroa feels delight, his fëa feels a depth like he has never known before. This is true love, he knows, and, even as he is entwined in his lover’s arms in the grass, he wonders how his father could have bonded with his mother and then bonded with another. For him, there is only Nerdanel, no matter what.
• First child born: It is too soon after the wedding, and he is terrified for Nerdanel’s well-being, but he is so thrilled to see the little red-haired bundle in her arms that he nearly forgets how to walk. He cradles the baby’s head in his hands, laying a kiss on his wife’s head, trying so hard to give her his strength. He smiles even more widely when her tiredness seems ordinary, when she is not following the curse of his line. And so he proudly names his son Nelyafinwë, not only to insult his elder half-brother, but to assert that his line is strong, and his happiness will only continue to grow.
• First discovery of silima: Few things are as beautiful as his sons who now number seven, but this gem is, the way it sparkles in the deep rock nearly bringing tears to his eyes. It is so fragile, a mere touch is enough to destroy any chance of holding it together, and he wonders what he can do with this. The Mingling comes soon after, and he decides to mine as much as he can, noticing that the light bounces spectacularly off of the white crystal. He dares to wonder if he can make his own light, as he has in the births of his children, and he dares to hope that this will make his father proud at last.
• First creation of silmarils: The crystals finally hold together after months, years, forever of experimentation. It takes an eternity to form them, and when he holds them in his hands, his touch feather-light, he feels as much pride as he had when any of his children were born. He thinks of his children and looks back at their house, all the lights out, and realizes it is nearly the middle of Telperion’s light. With his greatest craft achieved, he can rejoin his family now, and hopefully reconcile with his first, and he will finally, finally be happy.
• First time lifting a sword in anger: Just as he thought the gems bought him his father’s love, he sees him talking to Fingolfin, hears the scolding words and erupts in anger. The sword that had been so easy to forge feels so light in his hands, quivers no more than a hair’s breadth from Fingolfin’s throat. His half-brother had started the argument by scolding him before the court, but somehow it all turns to his fault in the eyes of the Valar, and the ones who are truly to blame – Fingolfin and Morgoth – walk off without a scratch as he is sent into exile.
• First night in Formenos: His half-brother is rewarded as he is punished, and he realizes how Morgoth’s prophecy came true. His bedsheets feel different here, his bed cold and empty without Nerdanel, who has returned to the house of her father. He wishes he could be there, with Mahtan clapping a hand on his shoulder and telling him everything will be okay, but he wonders if he instead comforts Nerdanel, helping her learn how to live life alone. He has never felt more abandoned, even with his father sleeping in the next room over, a final tangible sign of his love.
• First oath sworn: His marriage was like an oath, but Nerdanel broke it by returning to her father’s home. He would not break his new oath, not even when she begged for the lives of her youngest sons, the twins, or any of them, to stay behind.
• First time using his sword: His sword slides through the Teleri’s body so easily, it almost feels as though he is slicing butter in his kitchen, and he nearly expects to feel the tickle of Nerdanel’s breath on his nape before he remembers all that has happened. He is fatherless, homeless, wifeless, and his sword seeks anything between him and his Silmarils, the one love that he knew he could reclaim. His father and Nerdanel were beyond his reach, but this, he could keep; this, he could earn back. The words pounded through his veins like fire in his blood, driving him forward and into more and more enemies who had once been his allies, his friends.
• Last time he sees Fingolfin: He can practically feel his half-brother’s rage mingled with fear across the water as the ships go up in flames, and although the sight pains him, he looks, wishing it was instead his father looking at him. Fingolfin has always looked too much like his father, and the sight of the grief on his face nearly made him regret his actions, but he had gone this far, and he was not going to let Fingolfin usurp his place. With the Kinslaying, he knew there would be those who were against him, and he could not risk having another male heir of Finwë. He would keep his sons around him, and if his half-brother died in the cold, he would know at last that they did not have a true kinship, for his own fire could surely carry him across the Helcaraxë without a problem.
• First time dying: He could feel it in his blood before he felt the sword against his side. The pain took slightly longer to radiate through him, for his anger was so great. Who was this Gothmog to wound him, when he had not even been in Morgoth’s presence since the day he shut the gate on him? He feels the sword growing heavier in his hand, and wishes that he knew how to use a sword with both hands, and wonders why he did not study that more instead of reading more insipid books in his father’s library. Through the pain, which burns like a brand, he feels his sons around him, and the ground beneath him, and a gloved hand on his head and red hair matted with dirt and blood falling into his face. He wishes to clean his son’s hair, but he is unable to move his hand, and he hears the valarauko laugh, igniting his rage one final time. And he dies as he was born, in a great sheath of fire.

 

“Son, I have something to tell you.” Finwë approached his young son with no small measure of trepidation, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezing. His hands were clammy, and the air in the bedroom suddenly felt tense, heavy with anticipation.

“Yes, Atar?” Fëanor looked up from his book, wiping his ink-smudged fingers on a cloth on the nearby table. In front of him lay the results of hours of study that looked quite impressive to Finwë.

“I wish to introduce you to someone who has become important to me,” Finwë said, sitting down on Fëanor’s bed and slightly rumpling the covers with his long robes.

“Important to you?” Fëanor asked. “Do you mean like a new noble come to court?

“Someone who has come to court for a very specific reason, and who I hope you will treat with the kindness and dignity as befits the son of the High King of the Noldor.”

“Who is it?”

“Her name is Lady Indis, and she has come here to be my new wife,” Finwë said.

A look of shock passed over Fëanor’s face. “You are married,” he replied, his voice shaky.

“Your mother was my wife, yes, although she lives no longer. Her spirit has gone to the Halls of Mandos, and I appealed to the Valar and asked if I could take another wife.”

“Why? Did you never love my mother?” Fëanor’s voice began to rise as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

“Of course I loved her. Her soul was so beautiful, and I still love her, even after all this time.”

“It has almost been no time at all,” Fëanor replied. “And if she loved me, will you dishonor her sacrifice by replacing her?”

“No one can ever replace her,” Finwë said. “But a man needs a wife, and a king needs a queen, for a variety of reasons.”

“If you need a bed-mate, surely there are others in the kingdom who would oblige - ”

“Fëanor!”

“I meant it - is that all you desire?”

“The lady Indis has many virtues, and is a fine companion.”

Fëanor sighed. “And she has no desire for power whatsoever? She will not take the first opportunity to seize power for herself and for any children she may have?”

“I told her you are my son and heir, Curufinwë, and there is nothing in this world or any other that can change that.”

“There may come a day when it changes,” Fëanor said, his eyes downcast. “Must you, Atar?”

“I have given Lady Indis my word that I will wed her, and it would be dishonorable of an Elda and a king to forsake his word.”

“Did you not give my mother her word that you would take care of her child and love him beyond all else? And was not that vow made first?”

“There is more than enough love in my heart for one child,” Finwë replied. “Get ready, I wish to introduce you to Lady Indis.”

“She is here?” Fëanor asked, surprised.

“She is outside, in the gardens.”

Fëanor was quiet for a moment. “My mother’s gardens?”

“Yes,” Finwë said, and Fëanor tried to picture the body in Lorien’s garden that he knew was his mother up and about, walking through the garden.

“She planted it herself,” Fëanor said, recalling the stories of his mother that he heard from just about everyone in the palace, including his father.

“Should I let the plants die because she is no longer here?” Finwë said. “Your mother would want both of us to move on. She would not want us to live our lives in fear and grief forever.”

“A couple of decades would have been nice,” Fëanor muttered.

If his father heard his words, he ignored them. “Come, Lady Indis is waiting for us,” Finwë said, and reached his hand down. Fëanor took it hesitantly, noting the sweat on his father’s palm as the pair walked towards the garden.

Fëanor knew the path, he had taken it many times before, always encouraged to spend time in the area his mother had lovingly cultivated just as she had lovingly given her strength for his. He was used to the plants, but even after years of spending time in the garden, he continued to find new things to observe, to write about and show his father, who always seemed proud of him. When the two of them were in the gardens together, they almost felt like a complete family, as he could hear his mother in the breeze and smell her in the flowers.

Now, a blonde woman sat on the bench that Fëanor preferred, near the little purple flowers with yellow centers that he had loved most when he was a boy. She ran her fingers over the petals, giving Fëanor enough time to observe her before his father brought him over.

She was blonde, yes, which meant she was not one of his people. She was a Vanya, a lesser sort of Elda, and she looked as if a jewel factory had vomited all over her dress. He had to admit there was some prettiness in her face, a small nose and pert lips and kind blue eyes, but he had no idea why his father had to bring her here, for no other reason than to warm his bed. He could not stomach the thought of any other reason - if his father had stopped loving his mother, perhaps he would be next, and would that leave him in servitude to this Vanya and her children until the end of time?

“Indis,” his father called out, and the woman looked up, a small smile on her face. “This is my son Curufinwë, sometimes known as Fëanáró, my pride and joy,” he introduced, although Fëanor noticed that he had spoken to her first, rather than to him. Was the loss of love already beginning?

“Curufinwë,” she said, falling to her knees. She was tall, and even on her knees, she was close to his height. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I prefer my mother-name,” Fëanor replied.

“I apologize,” the woman said, and he felt his father’s fingers twitch in his hand, a silent rebuke. Already, he had erred in his father’s eyes. Already, he was losing that thin thread that tied their broken family together.

“I welcome you to court,” he said, the trite lines expected of him in just about every situation.

“Lady Indis, did you know Fëanáró is studying a new form of writing?” Finwë asked after several long moments of awkward silence.

“I did not know,” she said, her voice even and tempered. “What a noble pursuit.”

“It is easy,” Fëanor said, then hastily added, “I enjoy the work, and I hope to be a good prince and king like my father one day.”

“I am sure you will be,” Indis said. It looked like she was about to reach her hand up and touch Fëanor’s hair as a mother would have, but she changed her mind at the last moment, smoothing out her skirt. “I have no doubt you are as noble and valiant as your father, in word and in deed.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Fëanor replied, wondering if his father would make him go through this farce for much longer. There was no purpose to staying here, not when he had set his heart to never accept her. Fëanáró indeed had a spirit of fire, and when he made himself a promise, he would never break it.